They weren't even together.
They only had had sex (once!) with their clothes on, the day Malfoy and Hermione had received their N.E.W.T.s in the Great Hall. Harry had come with Ron, to congratulate Hermione. And he had brought Malfoy's wand, for no reason, really, other than that it had been on his mind lately that he should return it. Voldemort had been gone for a year and the war was over, truly done with and over.
They'd met outside, near the Lake, for some privacy. Harry had expected nothing more than perhaps a half-hearted, mumbled apology. The post-war Malfoys were known for their generosity with Galleons, not with words. But instead he'd found himself hard and panting, pushed against a tree and snogging Malfoy as if he'd wanted him forever. At this point, the thought that he might be gay had not once crossed Harry's mind. Still, he'd come in his pants from rubbing against Malfoy, and Malfoy had come too, if Harry had read correctly the intensity of Malfoy's thrusts and the sheer need in his moans. For years afterwards Harry wanked to the memory of Malfoy's frantic licks at his skin and the breathy, broken Harry, Harry, whispered in his ear.
They fucked the second time (well, twice) ten years later, after Harry's divorce. He had gained a stone and was so miserable Kingsley had put him on forced leave and he still kept coming to the Ministry because he couldn't bear the empty house. Malfoy accosted him in the Gents on Level Five where Harry had fled from the MLE. Harry had an inkling then, that he might not be entirely straight, but during those months he hadn't thought of sex, let alone sex with a bloke.
Nobody could have been more surprised than Harry when Malfoy wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him close with such obvious need. Malfoy made short business of Harry's fly and shirt, and he'd rubbed himself off on Harry's bulging paunch, too eager even to pull his own straining prick from his pants. Then he went down on Harry and sucked him off. Harry had been on the receiving end of a blow-job before, but he had never come down a man's throat. The experience was mind-blowing, a whole new level of release. Afterward, he found himself sitting on the piss-spattered floor, letting Malfoy kiss him. Malfoy tasted of come and tea and something sweet like Barley sugar. When Malfoy was gone, Harry had stared at the half-opened door of the stall, and he had hated himself for wanting that, for wanting Malfoy to want him and touch him, like this, again.
Harry readily admitted to those two times, but there had been a third time (okay, thrice) when he and Malfoy had had sex. Harry had been five sheets to the wind and lots of things were hazy in his memory. Others stood out crystal-clear: Kingsley's white underpants, the feeling of Malfoy's fingers deep in Harry's arse, the impossible, beautiful way bright orange meshed with pale blond hair.
It had been a momentous night. The Chudley Cannons had won the League Cup after they had replaced their entire team within a two-year span. The Prophet was hinting the players illegally had consumed a cauldron full of Felix Felicis to win the final match. It had been the game of the century, the Cannons against the Montrose Magpies. Everybody, even the Magpies fans, had bonded after the game, and the inns and bars around the stadium were drowning in orange and purple.
Four in the morning, Ron was dancing with Kingsley on the tables in The Seeker and the Snitch, bare-chested and wearing nothing but pants and socks. Orange-striped socks, the pair of them. At this point Harry started feeling dizzy, and he remembered distinctly calling for the captain, to bloody set the sails and get into calmer waters. He slid from his chair and was throwing up beside a purple pair of girly sneakers (Greengrass's, he later figured out. Tori had been loyal to the Magpies until the bitter end). When he reappeared again, Malfoy's pony tail was falling down his back, and Harry remembered with startling clarity, how vivid the orange of his shirt had been, how luminous his blond hair.
They ended up in a closet full of brooms and Quidditch gear. Malfoy had Harry pushed against the shelves filled with leather gloves and shin protection. Harry was rock hard, which was unfathomable, really, after the amount of Ogden's he had consumed. But he was, and so was Malfoy, and Harry couldn't keep his hands from the huge bulge of Malfoy's erection. He fumbled with laces and buttons and zippers, drowning in kisses and Malfoy's moans around spit and sharp teeth. Harry remembered clearly how he had wanted to see, had wanted to touch Malfoy's prick. Maybe it was the whiskey that made him dare to want that. Wanting to touch another bloke's prick made you gay, didn't it? Harry had wanted it so much, he surely must be gay. That night, the night when the Cannons won the League Cup after two hundred years, Harry didn't think about what it made him, that it was Malfoy's prick he wanted to see. Later he did think about it, but then the memories had gone hazy.
Heat, he remembered how hot Malfoy felt. Incredibly hard, and very different than Harry's prick. They were frotting, Harry's hands wrapped around both their cocks. Harry remembered how difficult it was to get a good grip on things because Malfoy was big and slippery and thrusting wildly. His hands had found their way to Harry's arse, and he was pulling Harry so tight that the next day Harry still could feel Malfoy's hands imprinted on his buttocks. When Malfoy slid first one, then two fingers into Harry, he was already well on the way. He didn't remember coming, but he remembered the crazy rhythm the two of them had found, thrusting forward against the massive heat that was Malfoy's cock, being thrust back on Malfoy's fingers, cool and long and sturdy, deep inside Harry's arse.
All next week, he'd wanked to memories of Malfoy's prick, of the heat of his mouth – mornings, lunch break (in said Gents on Level Five) and evenings. Friday night he sent Malfoy an owl, inviting him for dinner at his place. No need to beat around the bush. They had had sex three times, after all, drunk or not drunk.
Malfoy's reply came within the hour. Will be there at eight. I bring the red. D. Malfoy
The bottle of red wine (expensive stuff, if Harry was not mistaken) was dropped in the gas-lit hallway of number 12, Grimmauld Place. They kissed, breathing in the raspberry fumes of spilled Brunello di Montalcino. Harry pulled Malfoy along the hallway into the library and managed to shove him onto one of the Chesterfields. They were kissing so hard, it was impossible to remember what other kisses had felt like or whether Harry really had kissed other people before. Malfoy was surprisingly strong in his lanky, pointy way, and he had Harry on his back in no time. But the truth was, Harry let him. He was three months away from his promotion to Head Auror and fit like he'd never been before or after in his life. And this time, their fourth time, he wanted to wank Malfoy for real, without clothes, without anything between them.
He slid his hand between their bodies, and surprisingly Malfoy, who seemed to be into frotting like nothing else, allowed it. He held his body up so Harry could reach his fly. The cloth was stretched to ripping point, Malfoy was so hard. When Harry cupped his erection, Malfoy buried his face in Harry's neck with a strangled moan.
"I want to get my hands on you," Harry whispered. "Your dick."
A spasm rippled through Malfoy's body, and Harry felt the cloth underneath his palm grow wet.
"You want that?" Harry asked. Malfoy was moving slowly against his palm.
"Salazar, yes, yes, Potter, I want it." His voice was muffled as he whispered against Harry's skin. Harry squeezed, softly, and was rewarded with a sharp involuntary thrust and another warm spurt damping the trousers. But Malfoy didn't seem to feel the need to change positions to give Harry access to his goods. Well, Harry did. He grabbed Malfoy by his hips and spun them both around with a move he learned in advanced Auror training.
Malfoy stared up at him, eyes wide in startled surprise. Harry was hovering just above his face, arms pressed into the Chesterfield at the sides of Malfoy's head and rubbing their cocks together. The light from the side-table made Malfoy's hair glint golden. Harry sat up, keeping Malfoy's legs trapped beneath his weight. Malfoy's erection was huge, straining against the lacings of his wizarding trousers. Harry couldn't help but press his mouth at the wet spot above the veiled head of Malfoy's cock. Malfoy was arching up from the sofa as far as he could. His one hand was clutching at the leather of the couch, the other was clawing at Harry's thigh. There was a silken shimmer woven into the cloth of Malfoy's trousers, and Harry wanted desperately to see him without all those rich, pure-blood trappings. He reached for the lacings.
"Can we turn down the light?" Malfoy said. He moved his hand from the backrest of the couch to stop Harry.
Malfoy nodded at the lamp on the side-table, a rose-patterned shade with an ornate foot. A pink flush was creeping up his cheeks.
"You..." Harry's mouth was dry, he had to swallow. "You want me to wank you in the dark?" Malfoy had never been shy before, not at the lake, not in the loo, not in the broom closet a mere week ago.
"Just... too bright."
The light was far from bright, muted by the pattern of the shade. Harry moved his hand; dimming the light was an easy exercise in wandless, wordless magic.
Malfoy was in the shadows all of a sudden. His was breathing fast but no longer anxious, and his hands were rubbing up and down Harry's thighs with obvious need. Harry felt like kissing him softly on that pink thin-lipped mouth, he felt like tousling his blond hair that glimmered in the shadow. But then he went down and placed full-mouthed wet kisses on Malfoy's cloth-covered cock.
"Merlin..." Malfoy moaned and bucked helplessly underneath Harry's touch; his fingers were digging into Harry's hips so hard it hurt.
A bubbly happiness made Harry smile in the shadows. Malfoy wanted him so much. Just a bit of cloth was separating Harry from actually touching Malfoy there, at this most intimate place, and Harry was in full command of his senses, even overly sharp, without the booze, and without any grief on his mind. He couldn't help pressing himself against Malfoy's chest for a moment, relishing the heat and Malfoy's broken pleas to touch him, oh Merlin, please touch him. Harry had worn wizarding trousers himself often enough to untangle the laces in no time, and he quickly shoved them out of the way. In the dim light he felt for the waistband of Malfoy's pants, to push them down.
Instead of cotton or silk or any kind of expensive cloth Harry touched skin – hot, smooth, slick. His fingers were gliding down Malfoy's cock that had long escaped the confines of the pants. Harry's first thought was how hard Malfoy was. The flesh he was touching quivered with tension and need. Then there was a strange disconnect of memory and touch, for Harry had felt Malfoy's cock before, underneath the trousers, but it hadn't, well... not ever...
Malfoy's cock had never felt so big. Carefully he slid his hand into Malfoy's pants, exploring, touching. Malfoy whimpered. His whole body was arching up, up against the touch. Harry's hands were average sized, not overly big but not small, either, not by a long stretch. Still, it felt as if there was too much of Malfoy's cock for him to hold and wrap his fingers around. Harry could still feel his lips tingle with the feeling of Malfoy underneath him, firm wet heat. But when he had pressed his mouth against Malfoy's cock just a moment before, it had felt nothing like what he now held in his hand.
He let the tips of his fingers slowly glide up Malfoy's cock. Again there was a sense of disconnect. Harry remembered distinctly having felt Malfoy's cock in his trousers, but it hadn't felt like this. The oddness hit him, out of the blue, that they had had sex several (three) times but he had never touched the skin of Malfoy's cock. Malfoy's fat, long, extraordinarily huge cock. Harry barely could spread his fingers around its bulbous head. When he tried and squeezed lightly, Malfoy moaned and Harry looked up in his face.
Malfoy had his eyes closed shut, and he was biting hard into his trembling lower lip. Harry was close, so close that he could bring his cheek to Malfoy's face, and he did so – pressed himself tight against Malfoy's face. Malfoy's lip stopped trembling but he did not open his eyes. Which meant it was Harry's turn to glance downward, between their bodies, where Malfoy's enormous cock stuck up, huge and dark against the flat paleness of Malfoy's belly.
Harry couldn't believe the sheer size of Malfoy's prick. It was reaching up far above Malfoy's navel, broad like no penis Harry had even seen, certainly not between another man's thighs. He sat up a bit and leaned forward to stroke Malfoy's cock from tip to root. He couldn't wrap his fingers all around it but held its weight in the palm of his hand. It felt... brilliant. It felt like Harry needed to rub his entire body against Malfoy's cock, like he needed to suck it deep into his mouth, like he just had to have it stuffed into his... his...
Malfoy was awfully quiet. There was barely the sound of breathing. Harry pulled himself away from the sight of Malfoy's cock and found Malfoy had opened his eyes and stared at him – anxiously, even nervous, if Harry read him correctly. The cock in his hand softened a bit.
"It... it's not usually like t-this," Malfoy stuttered in a voice gone breezy.
"You... got hexed? Someone put an Engorgio on you?" It was the only explanation Harry could think of. For he knew, knew with the absolute certainty of memories replayed over and over while tossing off, that Malfoy's cock had not been so big in their secret, unforgettable encounters.
Malfoy chuckled, an oddly strained sound. He reached for Harry's hand that was holding his cock, a light finger-tip brush, whether to encourage him to continue stroking or to make him stop, Harry could not tell. But Malfoy clearly liked his touch, for his prick was growing hard again.
"No," he said, "nobody hexed me. It's just... I'm not usually that big." He whispered the last words, clearly embarrassed and yet pressing against Harry's hand.
"I could have sworn," Harry said, "that it never felt that big before."
"I have a," Malfoy coughed haltingly and wholly artificial, "a charm sown into my trousers. A modified Disillusionment Charm. To be decent in company, you know." His face had grown darker again in the shadows, and Harry wished for the muted brightness of the rose-patterned lamp, to be able to see the pink flush in Malfoy's face.
And – he couldn't stop fondling the huge cock.
For the larger part of his life, cocks had been absent from the things Harry did in bed, be they actual sex or wank fantasies. He had put his fingers up his arse, and one time Ginny had brought him to orgasm by massaging his prostrate. But he'd never fantasised about huge glittering dildos or a massive cock shoved in his mouth, arse, between his buttocks. Not even after he had been pretty sure that he was gay. Nobody could accuse him of being a cock-slut.
But now something about the size of Malfoy's cock made him ache deep in his groin. He wanted to rub his dick against it. He wanted to be naked. He wanted to come on Malfoy's cock, wanted to see his own spunk land on the hot heavy flesh. Just thinking of it, Harry moaned as precome pearled from his own erection. God, he wanted to be naked badly.
He moved away a bit from Malfoy, lifting his body. "Touch me." He brought his mouth close to Malfoy's ear, so close Malfoy's soft hair fell against his upper lip. It tickled, and it was unbelievably hot, and Harry said, "Take my dick in your hand. I want you to touch me. God, I want you."
Malfoy clearly had just been waiting for Harry's plea. He fiddled with Harry's zipper in an instant. And now, Harry was thankful of the muted light. He could not see the opaque grey of Malfoy's eyes that he had dreamed about all week. But in the shadows he could let himself feel nothing but Malfoy's deft fingers, pulling the zipper down, stroking along his length, wrapping around the base of his cock in such a delicious way that Harry pulled down his trousers and pants himself, to give Malfoy more room to explore.
Malfoy tugged at Harry's T-shirt until he could slide his cool hand up Harry's back.
"It's you, Potter," he whispered in a voice gone rough with need. "Why I get so big. You turn me on… so much. Merlin, just to feel you like this."
His long fingers circled the head of Harry's cock. His hips started thrusting, quick, small thrusts, falling into the rhythm of Harry's strokes. And Harry couldn't stand it anymore, the hoarse voice, the agonizingly arousing touch, the way Malfoy's cock got hard and hot in his hand again.
His knee found its way between Malfoy's legs, he pushed his half-naked body up on top of Malfoy. He leaned half onto the leather backrest of the Chesterfield, half against Malfoy who seemed more than willing to take his weight. They moved slowly, still exploring, still hesitant. But the heat was building rapidly between naked skin, hands, cocks, and Harry found himself sayings words he had never said before, whispering dirty things he wanted to do to Malfoy, things he wanted Malfoy to do to him.
God, he couldn't last much longer. Ginny had always complained about Harry coming early, and there was no reason why it should be different with Malfoy. Not when he was so hard. Not when moving against Malfoy in the flesh was so delicious, not when rubbing his cock against the hot fat length of Malfoy's dick made something tight and needy inside of Harry unspool.
He felt himself trembling, tethered (if barely) to this plateau of need where you know you will come, no matter what, within mere moments but not yet, not yet. Harry let his fingers fall around Malfoy's cock, too aroused to be able to grasp, every twitch of Malfoy's flesh pushing him closer, and Harry let himself fall – into the warmth of Malfoy's limbs, his hoarse and rapid breathing, the softness of his skin, his silken undershirt, the hardness of muscle and arousal, the scent of him, perfume, traces of spilled wine, spunk and something sweet like Barley sugar.
The need inside of Harry snapped, a sharp loosening, widening and widening until it reached the point where pain and lust collide, and Harry came, hard and intense. He couldn't say later whether Malfoy came just before or after him but he did come, his body underneath Harry going from taut to pliable as he was spattered in Harry's spunk. For long moments there was only yes and a smile that stretched from Harry's lips all the way to Malfoy's eyes, glittering in the shadows. And Harry thought that he wanted this, for a fifth, a sixth, for a seventh time. If he could have it, Harry wanted this, for the remainder of his days.
* * *